


No Greater Ally

by still_intrepid



Series: No Greater Ally [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Battle of Britain, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Western Betrayal, World War II, Yalta Conference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_intrepid/pseuds/still_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1945 and victory is declared, but for Poland it's bittersweet to say the least. England comes to say goodbye. Implied and desperately unhappy Eng/Pol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Greater Ally

_**1945** _

"I want you to leave now," he tells England.

"Poland, I -"

"Get out."

"I - "

" _Please_!"  His voice rings off the walls of the empty conference chamber.  England doesn't move an inch; it's like he can't, standing there in his dress uniform like a wooden soldier doll, utterly inured to reason and to anger and to pleading.  Poland can't bear to look at him.  "Please go."

He's signed all the papers, and everyone else has left.  England at least had the sense of duty (as is right and British...) to be there personally although he didn't have to be.  No, Poland thinks bitterly; this sort of thing can be handled by any mid-level officials. He thinks of Hungary and the others, in parallel meetings.  Prussia too, on the flipside, not that he can muster up much sympathy there.  Or satisfaction.

But here's England.  England who's abandoning him ( _again_ , a voice inside whispers low), and has the great British nobility, the audacity, the brazen _nerve_ to stay and face him.

 

* * *

 

"I can't leave you like this."

"Seriously?!"  That's hilarious. "Guess what. You should have thought of that before."

England has the decency to look stricken.  Not such a wooden soldier after all.  Then he half reaches out a hand, an abortive gesture, as if to grip Poland's shoulder or - oh God - to stroke his cheek.  No, no, no.  England you don't _get_ to do that, ever again.  Poland steps back fast and raises his hands to defend himself, like he's ready to deflect a blow.

" _No!_ Don't you get it? I can't - I can't do a fucking thing now!  I can't _leave_ this fucking _room_ until Ivan comes to _collect_ me!  This is like - this may very well be the last choice I get to make in God knows how long and," and he's making a scene again.  He lets his hands fall and his voice drop to barely above a whisper.  "Whatever... wow, I can't even kick _you_ out, I..." Why is swallowing so difficult?  " I don't. I don't even..."

Silence but for the tick of the clock. 

England begins again, wary.  "..Ivan's army will leave, as soon as it's practicable.  It's just for the transition.  We don't want to do anything too sudden, or - or destabilising."  (Does he not _realise_ how completely lame that sounds?)  "And then you will get proper elections.  Free and unfettered.  That - we made that a condition."

(A "condition"! Of cutting him up and stitching him together and handing over the whole grisly cadaver...  Oh it would make you laugh, but he's just so tired.) 

And he wants so badly to believe him this time.

Poland lifts up his eyes and looks England in the face for the briefest of instants that's almost too much for both of them.  "Okay," he says, and it's like a surrender - _the only one_ \- because he's just so tired.  "Okay, I... I'll trust you, I mean... I mean I always have, I always - even if -"  There are tears now at the borders, and at that will never, never do.  He tugs viciously at a lock of his hair.  "Look, please.  Just go."

(When was he this _polite_?  It's like a surrender...)

"Feliks, we can talk about this..."

Poland snatches up his anger with fierce gratitude, downs it in one, feels the desperate heat shoot through his veins. 

"Apparently _we_ can't."  He's advancing on Arthur now, glaring and furious.  "Remember?  Because I'm totally not important enough to attend a meeting about my own future!!" 

The echoes recede.  Tick tock, goes the clock. 

Because England can't say ‘sorry’ without being an awful hypocrite, and because he can't frankly say ‘it's for the best’ either, he says nothing.  Just stands there, a painted soldier doll in a hailstorm.

Poland turns around and pulls a chair out from the empty conference table in what's supposed to be a casual movement, but his shaking hands betray him too and the chair catches and nearly overbalances.  England springs forward in order to hover awkwardly, arms outstretched ready to save him should he fall, _maybe_.  Poland sits, probably the safest thing considering how up-and-down he is right now, how at-odds and unsafe in his own body, not that it's any wonder.

"I think that's everything," he says in a monotone to the tabletop.  "Like, you should go and enjoy the party.  I'm sorry, that sounded sarcastic.  I didn't mean it to.  You really do deserve everything you've achieved."

He can't help looking up, and England's closed his eyes.

" _So do you._ "

After a second, England walks towards the door.

"Poland."  He stops.  "All this time we fought together, you - you were magnificent."

 

* * *

 

(-- _Love, you were magnificent_ , he cried, in the giddy moment; they were both frantic with relief, literally overjoyed to be unhurt and back on solid ground yet feeling so high that it was hard to believe they'd landed at all.  Adrenaline or something in the air slanting all the colours brilliant and every single sight shot through with gold, they were all but undone by the unmanageable joy of living and the splendour of their own genius.  Feliks who was never much for eye contact suddenly couldn't look deep enough into Arthur's face, Arthur's eyes never brighter, and who could ever say they'd seen _that_ particular smile on his lips (not many).  Embracing and laughing, laughing, recounting each other's heroics, _Well that's that, Poland, you're a bona-fide hero now; just you get into that canteen and they'll all go crazy for you._

_Yeah... yeah, but I'd rather stay here._

Which works too…

Is England remembering all that?  And, and why does the memory take him all the way back to Grunwald? Surely there have been other moments of such perfect escape, such coinciding of kinship and need, joy and desperation, surely -- _you were magnificent, love_ \--  Oh no, to be sure these moments are nothing unique.  It was never anything unique.  But it was special, set-apart, all shot through with gold...  And now it is over.  _Over_.)

 

* * *

 

Bite your tongue.  Harden your heart.

\- it's not easy, because England is _still talking_. 

"I won't forget.  And I am quite aware that I will never be able to repay you."

There is totally no answer to that.  Even expressed in stuffy formal English, it’s too close.  So Poland undertakes a smile.  Because.  Well.  Practice.  He'll need it.  And, okay, fine, yes they've been through a lot together.  Sure. But he cannot afford to think about that right now.  _The situation has become utterly insupportable..._  

He blinks, surfacing.

"Any time," Poland says lightly.  He can do this.  A smirk? A grin?  How about that.  He's positively _charming_ , the irrepressible, irresistible Polish airman again, his courage and cheerfulness and resolution unstoppable.  "Like I always say: for your freedom and.."

_Bite your tongue_. 

Silence but for the clock.

"...for your freedom," he repeats.  He gets to his feet and salutes.  "I guess we did it, right?"

"We did."  England looks like he wants to say more and Poland thinks, _you bloody British idiot, don't you see this is your chance to leave now you have to leave now or I'm sunk.  I can't keep this up.  Don't you see?  You're not Alfred, still naive still hopeful still so very young, trying to be wise and trying to be politic and trying to be decisive all at once; Arthur you should know better._

"So, I'll be seeing you," he interjects, fiddling with a pen on the table.  This conversation is over, it has come to a natural close, and isn't it interesting how English does not use a word that means 'until we meet again'.  "Thank you, for being here today.  Would you mind shutting the door?"

_Would you mind_.  When was he this polite?

"Goodbye, Poland."

_Click_.

 

* * *

 

It's a long walk down a single straight corridor outside the room and sound will travel, so even with the door closed Poland knows he has to, he has to - 

He manages five, six breaths, in, out, while terror pushes in from the edges of his mind and over the horizon comes everything he's been holding back for months, the realisation that after _all this_...  And after all this, he has no one _, no one_ , he can turn to.

Tears overtake him like a lightning storm.  The floor pitches, he clutches at the table and with no more warning than that, he's fighting for every breath.  His eyes are wide open but blind, and the tick of the clock is _drowned out by white noise, white noise, a roaring of radio static and sirens and burning buildings.  All down the street the world is afire and the smell of it is in the air, on his clothing, everywhere, inescapable..._

" _Where were you?!"_ he screams with everything left in his lungs.

_The next barrage shakes the foundations and flings him to the ground._  

 

* * *

 

He comes to sheltering under the conference table, clenching fists as pale as ash and breathing in ragged sobs.  Tick tock, goes the clock again. 

_Bite your tongue_.  Promise me this is the last time you cry.  Be. Strong.  They _will not_ break me down now.  I'm Poland and I've seen worse.  I've been through worse.  I've come back from Hell.  Breathe.  Breathe. 

...What's taking Ivan so long, anyway?

_Late again Russia_ , he thinks, and almost has hysterics.

He counts another thirty breaths, each measured in-and-out to four ticks of the clock, and then he stirs himself and starts up to look for someone he can demand a snack from.  No point in starving if he has a choice.  But the doorknob won't turn.  England must have locked the door as he left.

Quiet as the dead he walks back to his seat.  Three thousand six hundred breaths in time with the second hand.

When Russia finally comes for him, he doesn't bother to knock. 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title, and quite a lot of inspiration for this, is from the book No Greater Ally by Kenneth Koskodan, which is all about Poland fighting in WW2, and a really awesome inspiring/heartbreaking read. I should say that though I've been doing some reading, this isn't too heavily specifically researched so apologies if anything is too off. A nd it is, you know, Hetalia, and I seem to spend half my life reconciling the Poland pre-WW2 episode to actualfax and my emotions.
> 
> I made them both fighter pilots during the Battle of Britain yep. I imagine if I were to think this out further that basically the nations would be able to take various roles, and be better at more things than humans. Like how England is also heavily into the intelligence game. Poland certainly was a cavalry officer at some point, and I think he's a bit good at maths too and possibly something in code-breaking. (..I like to think this also explains them having uniforms of like all the forces?) (Also, though I'm not entirely sure how it works, they're definitely not killable in the same way as humans). /random headcanonising.
> 
> I think if Russia actually appeared in this I'd want some reference to the fact that he's also been hurt fairly horrifically.
> 
> ...EngPol is one of my favourite alternative pairings, but it just... I've never come up with anything HAPPY for them yet.


End file.
